The Loveless Drabbles
by OhMyRaito
Summary: A collection of drabbles based around all the characters in Loveless. Mostly manga related.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Steam  
**Rating:** Don't think there is one, for this.  
**Pairing/Character/s: **Ritsuka, Soubi, Seimei, Yuiko  
**Word Count: **366  
**Warning/s:** Some spoilers for the manga, perhaps.  
**Summary:** Ritsuka's pondering.   
**A/N: **First one, thought I'd kick it off with a nekkid Ritsuka. Not that you see anything…he's only twelve after all…

Steam rose from the surface of the bath, pirouetting in the air before fading from sight. Ritsuka followed it with morose eyes, wondering if he would share the same fate some day. Here one moment, gone the next. The rubber duck floated into view, bobbing along merrily, and he pushed it away with the tip of his tail. At least he'd have the photos, a reminder to anyone who cared, that he had been here. Memories captured in pixellated images.

Sometimes, he felt they weren't enough.

The pictures didn't capture the sound of Yuiko's hesitant giggle when he smiled at her. Pixels couldn't hope to hold the touch of Soubi's hands, and how safe he felt when his own were encased within the Fighter's. But…he wished he had more photos of Seimei. Seimei had always been there, and so Ritsuka had never thought he would go, had never thought he might need more than a few photos to pore over. He wouldn't take anything like that for granted again. He'd learnt that lesson.

He'd heard and read about people who begin to forget what their loved one's faces looked like, had heard that they forget the sound of their laughter and voice. Ritsuka shuddered, sinking further under the murky water and holding his breath. He clenched his eyes shut and focussed on the dull pain and multi-coloured dots that sparked and died behind his eyelids. _Seimei…_

In a way, he didn't think he'd mind disappearing. Because that would mean never having to forget…never having to forget Seimei's voice when he was scolding him for not running fast enough, never having to forget the taste of Yuiko's home-made food. He'd always remember Shinonome-sensei's encouraging smile and concerned eyes, and Yayoi's vehement denials of being short. And Soubi…well, he'd never have to go through the pain of Soubi leaving. He wouldn't have to bear with the anguish of these things being there, and yet not. He wouldn't ever get to that time where he'd grasp for the memory, only to find it dissipating as quickly as steam in the air. He didn't think he'd mind, not feeling that.

It was selfish, in a way, to want 'Ritsuka' back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** All For Nothing  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/Character/s: **Ritsu, Soubi  
**Word Count: **730  
**Warning/s:** Suggestions of rape, homosexuality and maybe some spoilers? I think this scene was covered in the anime actually…  
**Summary:** Some exploring (maybe…more of a quick peek at the landscape and then turning back) of Ritsu's thoughts on Soubi and his education.  
**A/N: **There is too much hate for Ritsu! He's adorable! And funny as all hell. Yeah, okay, so he may have whipped and beaten (and possibly raped, though that has yet to be confirmed) the legend that is Soubi, BUT…Okay, I have no combatant for that…

* * *

_Taptaptap. _Ritsu's fingers raced across the keyboard, logging data and flicking between files. The only light came from the computer screen, which Ritsu knew was bad for his eyes, but really couldn't care less because the look on the cleaners' faces when they opened the door only to find his glasses glinting in the dark was, to be frank, priceless. He stopped typing for a short second, leaned back and stretched his hands high above his head. _Crick. _His knuckles cracked and he smiled in satisfaction. _Wink. _A frown flitted across his pretty forehead, and he pushed his glasses up further, to better see what unfortunate object was distracting him for his work. _Wink. _Light from the computer screen flickered on the blue and turquoise surface. Ritsu stared at the offending object. _Soubi…_

_--_

_The whip cracked down, once, twice. Muscles clenched under previously unblemished skin and Ritsu watched in fascination as the boy's back arched, his throat exposed and vulnerable. _This _was domination._

_--_

The earring that ditzy woman Nagisa-sensei had chucked at him shone bright and dim, a contrast in a pretty picture. He cocked his head to the side, twirled the pin in his fingers and watched the colours form a kaleidoscope of blue, turquoise and black. The back was missing. There was a type of backing called a butterfly back, or so he'd heard. He wondered if that was the back to this earring, wanted it to be, somewhere inside.

She'd said Soubi had been defeated. But that, that was impossible. Soubi couldn't be defeated. He knew this, knew this as well as he knew his own hands, as well as he knew where to place the pin to kill the butterfly outright. Soubi couldn't be defeated, because...because...

--

_Shadows trailed fingertips of inky black along the boy's half naked form and he found himself envying the, envying their brazen ability to do what he so wanted to do. Touch his throat, grasp him by the arm, show him what pain was made of. Show him how to find pleasure in the pain._

_--_

It was stupid of Soubi to think he'd found a master. Ritsu smirked, flicked his tongue out and licked the earring. The taste was metallic and tangy. Stupidity of the utmost. A child couldn't show him the pleasure to be found in life, a child couldn't even hope to understand Soubi and all his complexities. A child would still try to fix Soubi, would demand things that Soubi couldn't deliver. A child would be unable to dominate. A child would be unable to deliver orders with conviction.

Domination. Conviction.

All Soubi was looking for was something sturdy, stable, while the whole world feel around in ruins. A child couldn't hope to understand that.

--

_Harsh pants in the dark, shadows hiding the view from hundreds of dead, black, beady eyes. Whimpers and whine of pain-pleasure, a shout trailing off into a shuddery breath. Blood dripping on the floor and hard, rhythmic grunts. Actions carried through with conviction, the act one of ultimate domination. The _ultimate_ degradation._

_--_

A child couldn't possibly understand that pain was life. That what Ritsu had done for Soubi was a gift, something he'd given to no one else. Soubi had entered the world with no grandeurs, no pretensions and no way to be hurt because all pain was just a sign that you were alive. And Soubi wasn't completely, not without Ritsu. Because Ritsu had taken a piece of him, stolen something that belonged to only Soubi. He'd taken it with the coldest of manners, torn more than physical wounds on the boy's body. As a result, Soubi had become undefeatable.

Nagisa-sensei was stupid. No one could defeat Soubi. Ritsu knew this, Ritsu _knew _this, because if Soubi was defeated, if someone...if someone managed to kill the broken, stitched-back-together fighter, that would mean everything that Ritsu had done would have been for nothing. And that would mean...and that would make...

A feeling, sick, uncomfortable, and entirely disgusting settled in Ritsu's stomach and he swallowed the earring quickly, embraced the pain as it lodged in his throat and moved down with all the ease of a triple-sided thorn.

No. Ritsu knew that Soubi would live through anything. Soubi had convictions. Soubi was the ultimate Fighter - submissive to a fault, and intelligence rivalled by few. Soubi would not fail.

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah, sorry, but it seemed to publish this a little early. So if you read it before, it was unfinished...


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Short of Stable  
**Rating:** ...make a wild guess. I'm not good at these things.  
**Pairing/Character/s: **Kio, Soubi and Seimei  
**Word Count: **592  
**Warning/s:** Rambling. And not much sense. And a sucky ending.  
**Summary:** Kio loves Soubi, wth all his quirks and that one damned secret.  
**A/N: I forgot to change this my bad. **The Drabbles so far have been rather poor, haven't they. I'll read through the manga again, get some ideas. Sorry!

* * *

He swears there's nothing wrong, tells me not worry. 'Kio', he says, 'I'm fine'. A fake smile or two, a look from under those long lashes, and I curse God for giving Soubi those kind of looks that made you forgive everything.

He doesn't think I see the blood that crusts in the hem of his coat, told me I wouldn't understand when I cried about the scar on his neck. 'Beloved'. Some sick kind of irony, that is. I know who did it, that polite bastard of a boy, Seimei. He's the one who doesn't understand, or who maybe understands everything too well. He steals _my_ Soubi those real smiles, those delicate touches he used to brush the back of my hand with, those Saturday nights in front of the TV with a couple of beers and some cheap takeaway food we never really ate.

I know him, you see. I know him so damn well. He likes crabsticks and cranberry juice, but only in the morning because he says the juice is too much like blood in the afternoon. When he was younger, he lived and breathed music, but European, not Japanese, because he said the Japanese were too showy and over-enthusiastic, used words like cheap whores, for pleasure and gain only. He'd hum lines of Radiohead, Fuel, Dashboard Confessional, would paint the lyrics of Nirvana on my arm randomly and I'd pull a face but love it anyway.

He's here, right now. An arm thrown carelessly on my leg from where it fell down. The heat sears through my jeans and my hand's stroking through his hair. The couch is stained from previous Saturday nights and shared meals and the light of the TV flickers over his features.

" Nn..." He moves into my touch, like a cat, I can't help but think. Smile, then frown, because cats remind me of Seimei, and I hate him. I hate him so much. But Soubi...

He likes butterflies, but hates them too, and I wonder what gave him such a twisted love for an insect. I don't pry. He'd turn on me with deceptively soft smiles and sweet eyes, then lash out where it hurts most, leaving me gasping for breath with stinging eyes. When he's angry, he paints what he likes to see. He likes butterflies when they fly, when they're free, will sit back afterwards with his hands on his thighs and sigh in a happy content way that I can never make him do.

I've noticed it's only inanimate objects that cause that sigh. I find myself wondering if Seimei makes him sigh, makes him moan, makes hm writhe and -

It's not nice to think these thoughts, and they make my throat tight and my stomach hurt. My hands clench and Soubi whimpers in protest.

But, it's not fine. It's not okay. And no matter how often those words fall from his lips, landing on my ears like cherry blossom petals on Tokyo's streets, it will never be okay, or fine, and definitely not alright. He has a secret, you see. And I know it, I know it so well. All that I know about him, it's because he lets me. It's becuse he trusts me. But he'll never trust me that much.

I run a hand through his hair, smile as his features relax into something contented. The television murmurs something in the background, and a car alarm goes off outside. I don't know his secret, doubt he'll ever tell. But that's okay for the moment.

* * *

**A/N: **Yeah. Lost inspiration here. This is truly a sucky one. Going to be working mainly with prompts from now on - for some reason, all the drabbles that were there before have just upped and gone...so...Sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own.

* * *

The girls in the art studio had a running bet on when Kio and Soubi would get together. It was pretty obvious, most people said, that they liked each other. After all, Kio acted like Soubi's mother, cleaning up after him, nagging about deadlines, feeding him food and then sometimes he just acted like a proud kid who wanted praise from one of the people he cared about. Soubi seemed to smile more when he was around Kio, to laugh more readily.

They understood each other, it was generally agreed. If you wanted to talk to Soubi, you asked Kio if 'Sou-chan' was okay today. And if you didn't understand what Kio said around the lolly in his mouth, you asked Soubi for a translation. They could interpret each other's work without a blink, and they had the kind of arguments where you could really let your feelings out and know that the person would take them into account and respect them before retorting.

'Kawaii, honto kawaii, ne?' The girls whispered behind cupped hands when Soubi chased off yet another unsuitable suitor, or when Kio reprimanded Soubi for being a pervert yet again. And they looked good together, and had the whole seme/uke thing down. A stoic seme and a playful uke. It was practically perfect for the girls who adored yaoi and typical manga pairings.

But Saki knew the truth. She'd watched them carefully when the other girls had mentioned it to her, and frowned. Because, although she could see where the points of view came from, to her it was obvious that they were just very good friends. Perhaps it was the way that Soubi was completely honest with Kio on most matters. Saki knew that when you loved someone, you tried to protect them from the things that made you sad. Maybe it was the lack of flirty touches and lingering looks, the complete lack of lust. They'd sometimes joke about it, pretend flirt, or play up to the crowds, but Saki could see that it wasn't real.

They did have an understanding between them, a really close bond. But, to her, it just seemed like one of those friendships that were so strong that they only came around once in a lifetime. To her, it seemed like they had made each other their family, and were just riding life out, the only guarantee being that if they could be there for each other, they would. There were secrets and parts of lives shut off from each other, and sometimes Saki would see Soubi tenderly tracing a photograph of a young boy in a manner that spoke more of love and affection than anything Kio and Soubi did. And sometimes, Saki would be walking home from seeing her boyfriend, and she'd see Kio kissing a girl or a boy with the kind of passion he rarely directed at Soubi.

So she placed a bet on them never getting together, and refused to tell the girls about any 'inside info' that she had. She thought it was pretty obvious, in the way they acted, that they were just really good friends. The kind of friends that would last as long as they could. And maybe that was what had caught the girls' attention in the first place anyway.

**A/N: **Some ruminating on how others perceive Kio and Soubi's friendship.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Photo Album  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing/Character/s: **Ritsuka, Soubi  
**Word Count:**  
**Warning/s:** Dead from school, probably mucho crap.  
**Summary:** Sometimes Ritsuka hates cataloguing his life in pretty pictures and torn off post-it notes. Because you can't make a life from still moments and silly little words.  
**A/N: **I think the summary catches more of what I wanted to portray than the actual drabble. Sorry I'm so absent, it's doubtful I'll be picking up any of my stories soon.

--

The fur on Soubi's coat tickled Ritsuka's nose as he shifted on the bus seat. Soubi's hand tightened reflexively around Ritsuka's as the younger boy moved closer to the warmth and sighed. His eyes were open, and usually he'd be keeping his distance and refusing to show affection to Soubi in case he took it as a reward for his lies - but tonight he was tired.

They'd visited Seimei's grave. It had been cold, but Ritsuka had escaped through the window on the second floor and had forgotten a jacket. He didn't mind - he felt he could sympathise better with Seimei, cold like Seimei had been. He'd read somewhere that when fire reached a certain temperature, the heat starts to feel more cold than hot. He'd knelt on the grass and crushed blades of green between his fingers. They smelled of chlorophyll afterwards, reminded him of summer days when Seimei would mow the lawn and Ritsuka would mess about in the paddling pool, splashing his brother and laughing when his ears twitched.

But Soubi was warm.

It had struck him as he left the graveyard, gravestones so old and neglected that the words were covered in moss or illegible, that humans had an odd habit of cataloguing their lives. Photo albums from the time you're born to the time you die, placed on shelves and rarely flicked through. Birth certificates at the beginning, death certificates at the end. Birthdays for every 365 and a quarter days you spend alive, and then a ceremony when you die as well. Anniversaries. Gravestones. Biographies. Memoirs. His grandma had collected fimbles, had one for every special occasion of her life, and his grandad had collected bottle caps. He'd been a big drinker.

It all seemed rather pointless. They weren't great people - they were rather small, really. In a hundred years time, no one would care who Agatsuma Soubi was, and probably no one would know anyway. Faded photographs and a tombstone don't tell of a person. And sometimes he hated it, the way he had to catalogue his life, the way he had to make still-life memories from pixels and posed moments, in the hopes that the Ritsuka who came before and after him would care enough to learn about the Ritsuka who had been sacrificed and died. He hoped the boy who seemed so opposite to him, would have enough human empathy to care about who he had been in his absence, would know how to recreate lives, personalities, stories to go with the photographs and post-it notes he wrote himself.

He doubted it. He knew it would be impossible to recreate his life through the meagre means he had left. But that was all he had, that was all anybody had to show for their lives, and who was he to think he deserved any better? He'd tried, before. Stayed up all night with pictures in his hands and made up moments that had never existed, personalities to go with faces and pasts to go with the pixellated people. It was easy, to make up a life with the things he had left. It was useless. But...he feared oblivion more than anything else. It was too tempting sometimes, to forget about the Ritsuka-that-was and focus on the Ritsuka-that-is, to live in the moment and not worry about photographing it, to let lights burn brightly and burn out before he caught them.

He sighed, shifted closer, and the coat lifted to tuck around him. His fingers threaded in a belt loop, and he could see Soubi smiling in his reflection on the window. A streetlight burned outside, bright orange against dotted black. The after image burned in his eyelids until he fell asleep.

And sometimes he didn't want anyone else to know these moments.


End file.
